Every Rule I Had
by catja mikhailovic
Summary: Quinn wants a lot of things. The reminder of the last time she wanted something so badly looms in front of her.


**Notes:** Beta'd by the lovely and amazing Clio, who is not only a great writer herself, but also a smart and thoughtful critic. Inspired in part by the terrific "Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony)." by Myrifique (on Archive of Our Own). Seriously, go read it: that story single-handedly convinced me of the awesomeness of Quinn/Will as a pairing. Well, that, and when he danced with her during "Bust a Move." Spoilers through 1.13 "Sectionals."

* * *

Quinn has always known what it means to be good: accept Jesus, and save yourself for marriage. Girls who don't do that, who want anything else, deserve what they get.

Finn is perfect. He isn't smart, but he is kind, and he doesn't push her. His little problem, embarrassing as it is for him, assures her that she is desirable without actually requiring anything from her. For the president of the Celibacy Club, this is ideal.

The shock of heat when Puck slides his hand up her thigh is _not_ ideal. But just for a moment, she wants something for herself, and with his mouth on her hipbones she can't bring herself to care that she's being ruined.

When she finds out she's pregnant, through the haze of panic there threads something like relief. This is what is supposed to happen, this is why her father always told her to never open her legs for anyone but her husband. In her house, her father is always right.

Still, she's been so selfish and dirty already that a little more can't hurt. So she lies, tells Finn he's the father. The fact that he accepts her ludicrous explanation makes her think that maybe, maybe, she can do this, salvage what dignity she has.

When it all comes crashing down, a dark acid chill seeps through her, whispering _girls like you deserve what they get_.

* * *

Finn hasn't spoken to her since finding out; he sleepwalks around the house, silent, avoiding her pleading eyes. His mother looks uncomprehendingly between them, but refrains from asking questions – a small blessing, but one that Quinn is grateful for.

Five mornings after Sectionals, she packs her bag. She stashes it in the music room before first period, and doesn't hear a word anyone says to her for the rest of the day.

* * *

After classes, she heads back to the music room to retrieve her bag. Thankfully, no one is there.

She sits. Her entire life is here, in this bag, and she's going to be sick. She wraps her arms around her stomach, leans forward. Her eyes sting, and she rests her forehead on her knees, panic rising in the back of her throat. The thing inside of her squirms, or maybe she just imagined that.

Someone says her name. She holds perfectly still, so they can't see her. It doesn't work; whoever it is crosses the room, sits next to her. She'll scream, she's going to, but nothing comes. She feels the person beside her shift, as if they're going to touch her, but then they think better of it.

She looks up. It's Mr. Schuester, his hands useless in his lap. He isn't wearing his wedding ring. There it is, more tangible proof of yet another life she's destroyed. He shouldn't be here, not for her, and her throat closes up. When these great, racking sobs tear out of her, it hurts, really hurts, and distantly she realizes that she's clutching at Mr. Schuester like he's a life raft.

She's too tired to cry for very long, though, and the stab of humiliation at losing it in front of a teacher is far away, blunted. His arms are around her, and he's rubbing slow circles against her shoulder blades. When she pulls back, his hands fall away, awkward.

"Quinn," he says, quietly. "Why is your bag here?" He pauses. "Finn didn't –"

"No," she says. "I left."

"Where are you going?" he asks.

Where _is_ she going? With a sick lurch, she realizes she hasn't really thought that far ahead; the need to get out, get away from Finn's agony and her own betrayal was too powerful.

"What do you care?" she snaps, wanting to hurt him, to take the sympathy out of his eyes, to drive him away like she has everyone else.

He sighs, and stays where he is. "Where are you going to stay tonight?"

She looks away. "I don't know. A hotel. My car. It's none of your business."

"Maybe not, but you're my student, and I'm not going to just leave you here." He grabs her bag, stands up. "You can stay with me for a few days, until we figure something else out." He stops, looks back at her, uncertain. "That is, if you want to. If it won't make you feel too weird."

He's worried about making _her_ uncomfortable. If she thinks about that, she'll start crying again, so she just follows him.

* * *

He makes grilled cheese and tomato soup from a can, a child's comfort food. Dinner is silent. She thinks about asking if Mrs. Schuester will mind that she's here, but all the pictures and knick-knacks are gone, so she must be, too. Quinn can feel him watching her, but she keeps her eyes on her soup.

He clears away the dishes. She gets up to help him, but he won't let her. She sits again, twisting her napkin in her lap. She really wants to take a shower, but she feels weird asking Mr. Schuester if she can get naked in his bathroom.

He comes out, a towel over his shoulder. "Do you want any dessert? I have cookies, I think, or hot chocolate." She shakes her head.

"Let's put your bag in the bedroom, then," he says. "I'm sleeping on the couch," he adds hastily.

She doesn't want to kick him out of his bed, but he waves away her protest. "It's very comfortable; I've slept on it a lot." His mouth twists a little as he says this, and Quinn suddenly feels horribly guilty.

He shows her around: kitchen, dining room, living room, storage room, bathroom, bedroom. The bed is unmade, and there's a faint, warm, soapy smell in the room that she realizes, with a start, belongs to _him_: Mr. Schuester sleeps in those sheets, and that's the scent of his skin.

He seems to realize the same thing, and, embarrassed, he begins stripping the bed. They make it up with fresh sheets.

"Are you going to get in trouble?" she asks.

He looks at her. "Given your situation, probably not. It's not like I could let you sleep in your car." He pauses, a little flustered. "But, um. No sense in borrowing trouble. I just split up with my wife. Some people might, um. Read into it." She knows he's talking about Coach Sylvester.

"I won't tell anyone," she says. She's already ruined his marriage; she doesn't need to lose him his job, too. It's better this way, anyway.

He nods, relieved, and smooths down the blanket. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

She's about to refuse, but the alternative is lying in bed staring at the ceiling, so she agrees. He lets her choose. She takes her time; his collection is huge, and heavy on the musicals, which doesn't surprise her. She pulls out a green box with a dark-haired girl on the cover. Quinn likes her smile, and she hands Mr. Schuester the DVD without reading the back.

"_Amelie_," he says. "Good choice. It's in French, if that's okay."

She nods, and he puts on the movie. It's a ridiculous story, and Nino is kind of a loser, but she likes it anyway. She wishes someone could fix her life that way, with forged letters or psychological warfare against the people she hates. Unfortunately, there's nobody she hates more than herself right now.

* * *

In the morning, she gets her shower, in Mr. Schuester's spectacular bathroom – seriously, it's huge, with a big shower stall and a beautiful old clawfoot tub. She wonders if he'd mind if she took a bubble bath; the thought gives her a sharp twist low in her stomach, and she pushes it away.

As she brushes her teeth, she notices a tub of expensive hair gel on the counter. She grins, for the first time in what feels like years; Coach Sylvester wasn't entirely wrong to make fun of his hair. She borrows a dab for herself. It smells like him.

He leaves first, after handing her a key and confirming that pizza is okay for dinner. She sits down on the couch, pushing his blanket to the side, to let him get a good head start. After a moment, she reaches for the blanket and clutches it tightly.

He doesn't look at her all day – not in class, not in Glee. Everyone else does, though, and Puck keeps trying to catch her eye. Rachel, guilt radiating out of every pore, offers her spare room, but Quinn lies, claims she's staying with a cousin. She knows Mr. Schuester heard her, and she doesn't have to look at him to feel his relief.

She gets back to the apartment first, and looks around for some way to help out. After hesitating for a moment, she tidies the couch, folds his blanket and puts away his pillow. There's a decorated Christmas tree in the corner, and she checks to make sure none of the ornaments have fallen off. She wonders what he does when he comes home. Her mom always fixed her dad a Scotch after he got home from work. She's seen Mr. Schuester drinking tea, maybe she could make some. He might think that was weird, though; best to just see what he does today. A little embarrassed, she pulls out her chemistry book, and sits at the dining room table to study.

When he gets home, he comes into the dining room, drops his bag. She looks up. It occurs to her that she didn't see a desk in the apartment; he probably works here at the table.

"Am I in your way? I can go," she says.

"No, not at all," he says. "You can have the table."

She tells herself she doesn't want to take his workspace, along with his bed. But really, she doesn't want to be by herself, in this place that isn't hers. "We can share. If it wouldn't bother you."

He smiles. "Not a bit." He opens his bag and takes out a pile of papers, before heading into the kitchen. "I'm making tea," he calls. "Would you like some?"

"Yes," she calls back, and smiles a little.

* * *

Dinner that night is easier. He asks about Sectionals, and laughs out loud when she tells him about Santana's admission that Glee was the best part of her day. She skirts around Finn's part in the proceedings, and he doesn't press her; she suspects he knows anyway.

"Ms. Pillsbury was great, too," she says. "I've never seen her so mad. She really tore those other schools a new one. Where is she now, anyway? Everyone misses her."

His face closes down. "She has a new job, in Cridersville." He looks down at his plate.

She knows she shouldn't ask, but some devil pushes the words out of her mouth. "I thought you two were going to start dating." Her voice sounds snide, and she opens her mouth to apologize.

He stops her. "No, it's okay." He smiles a little. "I know your problem, it's only fair to share one of my own. Em — Ms. Pillsbury and I, we…." He looks away, then back at her, but doesn't meet her eyes. "I left Terri, and she broke up with Coach Tanaka – not for each other, it wasn't like that. But. She said it was too soon, and we needed to think." He closes the pizza box, starts gathering napkins. "She was right."

Quinn knows she should feel embarrassed, knowing this much about his love life. But she helped his wife fake her pregnancy, and it's not like she'd never speculated on how, exactly, Mrs. Schuester planned to get away with it. Now that Quinn is here, in the apartment they shared, she's amazed it worked as long as it did. Mrs. Schuester could have never let him see her naked, never let him touch her, not even hugs. And Mr. Schuester is a touchy-feely guy; not in a gross way, he's just always wrapping his arm around Finn's shoulders, waltzing with Mercedes, patting Artie's back. Once, while dancing, he'd even cupped her face in his hands, and she'd grinned back at him, delighted.

In her panic, Quinn had never stopped to consider that Mrs. Schuester was completely _insane_. What kind of a person is she, that she thought it would be okay to hand over her baby to someone like that?

She feels a sharp stab of pain in her abdomen, like a punishment. She doubles over, gasping, tears leaking from her eyes.

He is kneeling at her side, instantly. "What is it? Should I take you to the hospital?"

"I'm not in labor," she chokes out. The pain subsides; she breathes deep and slow, trying to relax. She is clutching his hand, so tight it has to be hurting him; she releases his fingers, but he holds on, his eyes concerned.

"It's okay, Mr. Schue. The Internet said stomach pain is normal, because of the tendons and stuff."

He breathes out, laughs a little. "You can call me Will."

It's stupid, but that makes her feel a little better.

* * *

The weekend is quiet. They share the dining room table; she studies for exams, which are next week, while he grades papers. They watch movies in the evenings: _Singin' in the Rain, Roman Holiday, Pirates of the Caribbean_. She knows she should be looking for somewhere else to stay, but Mr. Schuester – Will – hasn't said anything, and she's selfish enough to not bring it up yet. She'll start looking after exams.

* * *

Tuesday night, he looks at her over the dinner table.

"Do you have plans for the holidays?" he asks. "Because, um, if you don't…. " He trails off.

She feels awful; he probably wants to spend time with Ms. Pillsbury, and she's in the way.

"I'm so sorry, I haven't found anyplace else yet, but I'll start looking right away – "

"Quinn, it's okay – I don't have any plans myself, and, well, I was hoping you wouldn't mind staying with me." He smiles, sheepishly. "I like Christmas, and am not looking forward to an empty house. You'd be doing me a favor."

She agrees to stay. She has no idea where to begin looking, anyway.

* * *

Her stomach is swollen, grotesque, and it's only going to get worse. She needs new clothes, new underwear, even new bras; she suddenly has cleavage. If this is what it takes, she'd rather remain part of the Pancake Club. After her last exam, she heads out to the mall. She manages not to cry over the absolutely heinous clothing they expect pregnant women to wear, but it's a close call. It's obscenely expensive, too; luckily, her parents haven't cut off her credit card.

She stops at Borders, grabs some magazines and a few Agatha Christie novels, to occupy herself over the break. She looks in the DVD section, and finds three musicals – _The Band Wagon, Broadway Melody of 1936_, and, best of all, _White Christmas_ – that Will doesn't have. Maybe she can help him find something for Glee to sing.

She has the clerk wrap them, and thinks the day hasn't been that bad, after all.

* * *

Christmas morning, she wakes up to the smell of bacon. She gets up to investigate, and Will, dressed in pajama pants and a grey v-neck t-shirt, is indeed making breakfast. He smiles, wishes her a Merry Christmas, and hands her a plate piled high with pancakes.

After breakfast, she grabs his gift from the bottom of her bag, and heads into the living room. Will is sitting on the couch with a wrapped present in his lap, and her throat catches a little, that he still thinks he needs to give her something.

She settles next to him on the couch, hands over his gift. He grins, delighted, at her choices. "I haven't seen _White Christmas_ in years. Can we watch it tonight?" He looks so eager, like a little boy, and she realizes that even though he's a teacher, he's actually not that old.

"That's why I picked it – I used to watch it all the time, when I was little." She smiles, remembering. "I wanted to sing and dance like Vera Ellen."

"I love it," he says, and he pulls her into a one-armed hug. "The others, too."

She leans her head against his shoulder. This is the first time he's been this close to her, when she's not crying or in pain. He's warm, and smells like breakfast. She can see a little bit of his chest hair, curling lightly at the neck of his t-shirt; she's seized with the sudden urge to touch it, see if it's as soft as it looks, and forces her hands to stay in her lap.

He doesn't notice her moment of insanity, and hands her his present, his arm still around her. She unwraps it, glad to have something to occupy her hands. He's given her two fat collections of fairy tales: the Grimms, and Hans Christian Andersen. Her eyes water.

"You sing Disney songs in the shower." He flushes, a little. "I thought you might like to read the real stories."

"It's perfect," she says. And it is. He thinks she still deserves to believe in happy endings, and today, she almost believes it herself.

She feels a weird jab in her stomach, and at first she thinks he poked her, but then realizes that it's coming from inside.

"Oh my god," she says, pushing her hand under her pajama top and pressing it to her stomach. "The baby just kicked."

His eyes widen, and he starts to reach toward her stomach, but then hesitates. She grabs his hand and puts it in the spot where she felt the first movement. The baby obliges with another kick.

"Wow," he says softly. She puts her hand over his, and watches their fingers intertwine.

* * *

The holidays pass, and he hasn't said anything about her leaving. On New Year's Eve he had waltzed her around the living room until they collapsed, laughing. At midnight, she impulsively kissed him on the cheek. His eyes widened, and she mentally kicked herself, her face heating up. But he just pressed his lips to her temple, and clinked his glass of sparkling grape juice against hers, and it was okay again.

On New Year's Day, they watched the parade, and made fun of the extreme dorkiness of the floats. They both admitted a love for the one with the bulldogs, even if neither of them understood what, exactly, was going on there. It's nice.

* * *

One night, she's hit with a wave of nausea, and barely makes it to the bathroom in time. Most of it makes it into the toilet, but some splashes onto the floor, her shirt. Will comes in with a roll of paper towels, and she's suddenly angry.

"I can clean up my own puke, you know," she snaps.

He stops, mouth open, like Finn at his most infuriatingly stupid. "It's fine," he says, "I'm happy to do it."

"No, you're not. Nobody's happy to clean up puke. I can take care of myself."

He gets that "concerned teacher" look, and she wants to slap it off of him. "Quinn, just let me –"

"Stop _rescuing_ me," she screams. He puts down the paper towels, leaves.

She cleans up, showers, brushes her teeth. Her anger dissipates, and it's replaced by guilt. He's been nothing but kind to her, and she certainly doesn't deserve it.

When she comes out of the bathroom, he's sitting on the couch, head in his hands. He looks up.

This is it, he's going to throw her out. She braces herself.

"Quinn, I'm so sorry. You were right," he says. Her heart turns over – it's ridiculous, he shouldn't be apologizing to her.

"I yelled at you," she says.

"I deserved it." He looks down, his mouth twisting. "Emma said I'm not very good at treating people like adults."

She sits down next to him. "Always the teacher."

He laughs, and it's bitter. "More like, always the white knight, looking for a damsel in distress." She looks at him. "Emma said that, too."

She wonders when he talked to Ms. Pillsbury, and if he told her that Quinn was living with him. She hopes not; she hates the idea of him making any more sacrifices for her. "I've got no right to be upset," she says. "You've been really nice to me."

He looks at her. "I admire you," he says. "The kind of pressure you're under, most adults would have cracked. You're a strong person, Quinn, a lot stronger than I was at your age. Hell, you're a lot stronger than I am _now_."

She looks down at her hands, embarrassed. "I'm sorry for not telling you. About giving your wife the baby. I helped her lie to you."

His face softens. "That wasn't your fault. Terri took advantage of both of us." He sighs. "Looking back, I can't believe that she was _able_ to fool me. It's my own fault."

"I still should have told you," she insists.

He considers her. "I accept your apology," he says.

* * *

About a week into the new semester, as they're washing dishes, he asks, "When's your next doctor's appointment?"

She stares at the plate in her hands, which is suddenly fascinating.

"I never made one," she says. "It was too expensive, and I didn't know what to do."

"I can take you Friday after school, if that's okay."

"I can't let you do that."

"I want to," he says. "As long as you're under my roof, you have to let me take care of you – not too much, just a little bit. It's the rules." He smiles at her.

"Oh, well, if it's the _rules_," she says, feeling warm. "But at least let me hit up Puck for some of the cost. He keeps offering."

He laughs. "It's a deal. But even if he can't, we're still going, okay?"

"What about the delivery, though? That's going to cost a lot more, and if something goes wrong –"

"Nothing's going to go wrong." He hesitates. "Do you know if you're still covered under your parents' insurance?"

She closes her eyes. "I don't know. Neither of them likes paperwork, so I doubt they've gotten around to cutting me out completely."

His lips tighten, but all he says is, "We should find out. If you don't want to call them, maybe I… no, that could be awkward."

Eventually, they decide to take Rachel into their confidence. Telling a teacher would be too compromising, and of all the Glee people, Rachel is the best equipped to deal; she's smart, she's neither gossipy nor vindictive, she can think of a good cover story and stick to it, and most of all, she wants to make it up to Quinn. "It's better to have her inside the tent pissing out, as the saying goes," Will says, and immediately looks like he regrets it. Quinn just laughs until her stomach hurts.

* * *

Rachel is supportive, swears eternal secrecy about their living arrangements (after being assured that Will is, indeed, sleeping on the couch), and claims to have sensed all along that Quinn was lying about the "cousin." She also agrees enthusiastically to the reconnaissance mission: "It will be an opportunity to practice my dramatic skills in a high-tension environment." Will is worried, but Quinn reassures him; her mother will be so confused by Rachel that she won't question anything she tells her.

Rachel arrives at the apartment afterwards, carrying a bag full of random items from Quinn's dresser. She is subdued, for Rachel, but reports the mission a success.

"I talked to your mom," she says. "I told her we in the Glee club were taking care of you, and that she shouldn't worry. I then ascertained that you are indeed still covered by their insurance; your mom also indicated that your credit card will continue to be paid."

"Did she say anything else?" Quinn is ashamed of the begging note in her voice. Will, behind the couch, moves closer; he doesn't touch her, but lets her know he's there.

Rachel looks at her, and Quinn wants to hate her, hate the compassion in her eyes, but she's just too tired.

"No," Rachel says. "I'm so sorry."

It was what she'd been expecting. She closes her eyes, breathes.

Rachel takes her hands. Will sits on the couch, puts his arm around her. They sit like that for a long time.

* * *

That night, she jolts awake, feels something sitting on her chest, crushing the air from her. She can't move, she tries to scream, but all that comes is a hoarse outrush of breath. The baby kicks wildly, they're both going to die here, alone with each other.

It's over almost as soon as it begins, but the terror remains. She can move again, and flicks on the lamp. Nothing.

She turns her face into the pillow. She'd been so good, hadn't cried herself to sleep for nearly a week.

The door opens, and she freezes again, but it's just Will. His hair is mussed, and there are creases on his face from his pillow. He comes in, sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Nightmare?" he asks. His voice is scratchy.

"Something like that," she says. "I woke up, couldn't move."

He nods. "Sleep paralysis. It's scary." He reaches over, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers are warm against her cheek.

"Stay," she whispers. "Please."

He blinks, his hand still on her hair. She suddenly feels very young, and very stupid. He's going to leave, she sees it in his face.

"Okay," he says, surprising them both.

He gets in on the other side of the bed, rearranges the pillows to his liking. She turns on her side, facing him, watching him settle in.

He glances at her, expression unreadable. "Goodnight, Quinn," he says. He closes his eyes.

Quinn watches him for a long time. When she sleeps, she doesn't dream.

* * *

When she wakes up, she's surprised by the heat at her back, but doesn't question – it feels too good. She snuggles back into it, and realizes that there is an arm around her (disgustingly swollen) waist.

The warmth at her back is Will, and he's holding her close, breathing quietly into her hair. Quinn never thought she'd share a bed with someone until her wedding night. She'd thought a lot of things, and most of them were wrong.

She doesn't have the energy to care if this is wrong, so she shifts closer to him and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Next weekend, she finally decides to use the bathtub. She pours in half a bottle of honeysuckle-scented bubble bath (a gift from Mercedes), and turns up the water as hot as she can stand. While the tub fills, she grabs the Brothers Grimm. Will, reading on the couch, smiles at her.

"I was wondering what took you so long to use the tub. Let me know if you need any help." He flushes. "I mean, like – not that I want, I just don't want you to slip. That didn't come out right."

She grins, takes pity on him. "I'll call you if I need you."

In the bath, she tilts her head back, studies the cracks on the ceiling. She isn't floating, but her six-month belly feels weightless all the same.

When the water cools, she gets out. It's a little slippery, but not enough to make her want to show Will her "whale rising from the sea" impression.

As she dries off, she wonders what Will thinks of her changing body. She runs her hands over her belly, her swollen breasts. Her nipples are darker than before, and ache pleasurably when she touches them.

Since that first night, he's shared the bed with her. Every morning, she's woken up in his arms, and every morning, she snuggles into his body, and every morning, he tightens his arms around her for a moment before he gets up. She feels the absence of his heat all day.

* * *

They rehearse for Regionals, which are coming up in two weeks. At almost seven months, she can't dance much, but can still sing. Mercedes alters all of her costumes, and Quinn hugs her in gratitude; surprised, Mercedes hugs back. Rachel, Tina, Brittany, and Kurt join in, and it all turns into a deeply embarrassing, but nice, lovefest. Even Finn smiles at her, and she's surprised that it doesn't hurt to look at him anymore.

Will hangs back, smiling mistily, until Artie throws a wad of paper at him and calls him a sap. Will agrees, and calls the rehearsal to order. When she catches his eye, he gives her a small, secret smile that unfurls warmly under her skin.

* * *

The worst part of being pregnant, she decides, is the constant hum of physical discomfort. She's not usually in actual pain, but between the itching, the bloating, and tense straining in her lower back, she's about to crawl out of her skin.

It's worst in the evenings, when she's been dragging her engorged body around all day. One night, it's especially bad; they're watching _Moulin Rouge!,_ one of her favorites, and she can't get comfortable for more than a minute at a time.

Will looks over at her. "What hurts the most?" he asks.

She thinks. "My knees," she says. They feel hot, mushy, swollen, and she can't find a good angle to bend them.

"Would it help if I rubbed them for you?" he says.

They rearrange the pillows, and she drapes her legs over his lap. He pushes up the legs of her pajama pants. She's suddenly embarrassed; she hasn't shaved her legs in a while.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm hairy and gross."

He smiles and runs a hand over her shin, making the hairs stand up. "You're not gross. And I'm a lot hairier."

It becomes a routine. Every day, he massages her shoulders, feet, back, wherever she needs it. Usually it's while they're watching television, but not always.

One evening, she's doing pre-calc problems, and her fingers cramp up. She shakes them out, but they're swollen and sore. Great, now there's no part of her body that isn't completely disgusting.

Will looks up from across the table. "Hands?" he says. She nods. He comes over, pulls up a chair, takes her hand, and starts rubbing the tips of her fingers.

"I looked up pregnancy massage techniques," he explains. "You're supposed to go towards the heart."

His hands are smaller than Finn's, but his fingers are longer, more graceful. He bends his curly head, concentrating. His hands are warm, as they always are when he touches her.

She studies his profile, the clean lines of his nose and jaw, his absurdly long eyelashes. His fingers slide over the sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist. Something low and hot wakes up at the base of her spine; she can feel her breathing quicken, and wonders if he notices the pounding of her pulse beneath his thumb.

He looks up, and his eyes are darker than she's ever seen them. She holds her breath. His eyes flicker to her mouth. His lips part a little; she tracks the motion. He swallows. Her heart is loud in her ears, and she's aware not just of his hands covering hers, but of every molecule of space between their bodies.

He lets go of her hand abruptly, like her skin has burned him, and gets up and heads into the kitchen.

"Do you want curry for dinner?" he calls. His voice is odd, rough.

"That's fine," she says, and hates how shaky she sounds.

* * *

They win Regionals. Everyone cries, including Puck.

Backstage, Will gets tackled by just about everyone, and he winds up at the bottom of a pile with Matt and Santana right on top of him. Quinn sits in Artie's lap, and laughs as Will tries, in vain, to disentangle himself. Santana slithers off him last, her eyes wide, hands lingering against his chest. Quinn's skin feels too tight, and she shifts uncomfortably.

"Are you okay?" Artie murmurs. She feels guilty, she's probably crushing him, and she moves to get up. He holds her still. "I'm fine," he says. "You just looked upset."

"I'm okay," she says. He looks at her, his startlingly blue eyes narrowed, but decides not to pursue it.

"You can talk to me, if you want."

She's genuinely touched, and hugs him. "Thank you. I'll remember that."

"Anytime. Just don't suffocate me with your brand-new boobs," he grins.

She hoots with laughter, and Kurt, who heard the last line, rolls his eyes and says, "I don't want to know."

"No, you don't," she agrees.

* * *

Will floats around the apartment all evening, euphoric. "We _won_," he keeps saying. "Did I tell you? That was the deal I cut with Figgins: if we won Regionals, Glee was here to stay. And we _won_!"

She laughs, just as happy. "I know, I was there. It was perfect."

When they get into bed that night, she leans over and whispers, her lips brushing his ear, "We won."

"I know, I was there," he whispers back. His eyes are bright, and she wants to run her fingers over his cheekbones, his mouth. She wants to curl up on him, work her leg between his, fall asleep with his heartbeat in her ear.

She wants a lot of things. The reminder of the last time she wanted something so badly looms in front of her.

She rolls away, arranges her belly comfortably. After a moment, she feels Will curl around her; when he slides his hand over her stomach, she laces their fingers together. They always wake up like this, but it's the first time they've fallen asleep like this. It takes away the plausible deniability, somehow.

She sleeps easier with his breath in her hair.

* * *

She knows it's wrong, thinking about him like this. He holds her close every night, but there is still a line, and it follows the careful angle of his hips. Only once has she felt him against her like that; he was fast asleep, and, mouth dry, she ached to press back into him, but was afraid of waking him up. After a moment, he had shifted away, conscientious even in sleep.

In the shower, she rationalizes that since she can't see it when she slips her fingers between her legs, then maybe it's not happening at all. When she comes, his name on her tongue, the hot water washes her voice away.

In class, he conjugates verbs, his voice bland with teacherly authority. He'd dropped a kiss on her shoulder that morning, before he rolled out of bed, and she can still feel the imprint of his lips.

She presses her legs together and fills in her worksheet.

* * *

At eight months and counting, everything hurts, the baby never stops kicking, and she can't put on her own shoes. She craves Will's hands: he rubs her back, her feet, her neck, her knees, whatever hurts the most. When she showers, he hovers outside the bathroom door, terrified she's going to fall. He brings her hot fudge sundaes, spicy curry, sushi, egg salad sandwiches, whatever she wants. She doesn't like making him run around fetching things for her, but he doesn't mind. At rehearsals, his eyes are always on her; it doesn't matter though, because everyone else is watching, too, waiting for her to burst. She has nightmares about her water breaking at rehearsal or in class, in front of everyone.

Instead, her contractions start on a Friday night in late May. Will is asleep beside her, his hand curled against the small of her back. She watches the clock, timing: they're twelve minutes apart, then ten. It's uncomfortable, but she doesn't want to wake him yet.

She gets up, draws a bath. Eight minutes apart, then seven. She clutches the edge of the tub, knuckles white. She knew, in the abstract, that this was going to hurt. Every contraction gets her closer, closer, to her body being ripped apart. Her stomach ripples with each contraction, and the baby is going to come out however she can, no matter what it does to her mother.

Over the pounding of the blood in her ears, she hears her name – it's Will, outside the bathroom door, She doesn't even care that he's seeing her naked. He keeps his eyes on her face and wraps her in a towel. Six minutes, five.

* * *

The only thing she remembers is Will's voice in her ear, calling her sweetheart.

* * *

Afterward, she wakes up hearing Rachel's voice, expressing gratitude that, when Quinn's cousins were out of town, Mr. Schuester was home and available to take her to the hospital.

That doesn't make sense, and Quinn opens her mouth to say so, but someone else blocks her view. It's Puck, and he kneels down beside the hospital bed, squeezing her hand. He looks overwhelmed, but she's glad he's here – he deserves to be, certainly.

Someone else deserves to be here, too, and she looks around, wildly. Will is standing in the doorway with Rachel, and looks like he's about to withdraw, give Quinn and Puck some privacy.

"Stay," she says to him.

He does.

* * *

She asks for one hour with her daughter, before signing the adoption papers. Puck, Rachel, and Will stay too, when she asks them. She doesn't want to be alone with this child, doesn't want to risk changing her mind. But she doesn't want to give her up without getting to know her, just a little.

Rachel asks, tentatively, what name Quinn would choose. The baby has huge dark eyes, a small fringe of dark hair, and a quizzical expression.

"Amelie," she says.

After fifty-five minutes, Puck hugs her, and kisses his daughter. He leaves with Rachel, and doesn't look back.

Here, now, this is the worst. This baby was almost Will's. He gazes into her daughter's dark eyes, her tiny fist wrapped around his finger. At this moment, Quinn wants to throw everything away, ask Will to help her raise this baby, ask them to be her family.

He reads her mind. His eyes fill with tears, but he doesn't look sad, exactly.

"You're doing the right thing," he says.

"Are we?" she whispers.

"We are," he says, his voice catching at "we." "Right now, we are. You're young. Next time, you'll be ready."

Next time. "You're young, too," she says.

Something kindles in his eyes. "I am, aren't I," he says.

* * *

When he brings her home, he carries her from the car, up the elevator, and over the threshold, before finally depositing her in bed. He doesn't need to, she can walk, but he says he's not taking any chances. Well, he tries to say that, but he's too short of breath. She laughs, says she's not very heavy anymore, he's got no business complaining.

He takes a few days off, to stay home with her. They're both quiet, but it's comfortable. She stays in bed a lot; he grabs a book and joins her. Sometimes he reads to her, poetry, fairy tales, Shakespeare.

This new body, it's just hers again, but she doesn't recognize it. Her belly is soft, her breasts sag a little and leak sometimes. When she hugs Will, she can press her whole body against him.

* * *

She doesn't really need him to rub her back anymore, but she lets him do it anyway. He lets her return the favor, too; she gets very good at tackling the knot under his left shoulder blade, the one he blames on Coach Sylvester.

She's getting bolder, and it terrifies her, a little. She leans her head against his shoulder, bumps his hip in the kitchen, tucks her fingers into the crook of his arm. One night, while watching a movie, she feigns tiredness and lays her head in his lap. He stills, and she's afraid she's gone too far, but then she feels his fingers combing through her hair. She really does fall asleep then, and only wakes up when he's carrying her to bed.

It's getting warmer, and Will feels the heat, tossing and turning. No wonder; he's still wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants to bed. One night she tugs his shirt up, and he gets the idea. When he comes back, he's wearing only boxers. She surveys him, eyes half-closed. When he lies down, he reaches for her, and she falls asleep with her fingers curled in the soft hair on his chest, his heartbeat in her ear.

* * *

School ends, but Glee continues; they're preparing for Nationals in July. While she chops vegetables for salads and Will stirs the pasta sauce, they brainstorm good duets for Santana and Kurt. He cracks up when she suggests "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better."

Her cell phone, in her bag on the counter, rings. "That'll be Mercedes," she says. "I'm helping her and Kurt with costumes."

"I'm counting on you to keep the sequins and feathers under control," he says, and she laughs and opens her phone.

It isn't Mercedes. "Hello, Quinn," her mother says.

Her stomach drops through the floor. "Mom," she says. Behind her, Will freezes.

Her mother draws in a breath, and launches into what is obviously a prepared speech. "Even though you disappointed us with your behavior, your father and I are prepared to forgive you. We'll allow you to come home."

Mom, Daddy, _home_. This is what she wants, right? She was a terrible daughter. She should be grateful that she's being forgiven. Things can go back to the way they were. She knows her parents; they'll pretend this never happened, and let her do it too. Her family, her home, her life – just hit the reset button. None of it will have happened.

Except for Will. _Will._

When she turns to him, his face is white, stricken. Something inside her cracks open.

She holds Will's eyes. "I'm happy where I am," she says. He takes a step towards her, stops, his chest rising and falling. Her hands shake, but she won't let herself reach for him, not until she gets this out.

"Quinn," her mother says, "_please_."

Quinn almost breaks, almost says yes to that raw note in her mother's voice.

"I'm not ready to forgive _you_, Mom. I'm sorry," she says. "One day, I will be. But not now."

"I'm sorry, too," her mother says, and hangs up.

She drops the phone when Will wraps his arms around her. She's crying, but it's sharp and clean, and when it's done, there's nothing but relief. Will is clutching her close, one hand buried in her hair.

"I love you," she says, mouth against his throat, and saying it out loud, it's like that first gasp of clean air after almost drowning.

"I love you too," he says, "so much." His voice is rough, like he's also been crying, and the light in his eyes makes her giddy. He thinks she deserves to believe in happy endings, and she believes him.

When she kisses him, his mouth is warm and slow, and neither of them say _finally _but it's there all the same. He tastes like salt, but he's laughing, and she is too.


End file.
